


Silver Lining

by Rehfan



Series: White Ladder [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More angst, Punishment, Riding Crop, S&M, Sherlock hurt, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:11:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old frenemy comes back into Sherlock's life. Sherlock knows when he's beaten, but does he realize what's good for him?</p><p>The arc of a relationship. Two people who are meant to be with one another will always find one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Lining

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Sherlock Johnlock fanfic that is based on the music of David Gray's album, White Ladder. Each chapter is named after each track in sequence and is headed with a quote from that particular song.
> 
> The album was released in 1999, but it's one of my favorite albums and it is available for download on iTunes. Please download it. You won't regret it.
> 
> Part Six is based on this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpESwMFyB8w

“Can you tell me why  
Time after time they drag you down  
Down in the darkness deep  
Fools in their madness all around…”

 

I’m not hungry. Let’s have dinner – IA

Sherlock stared at his phone. It can’t be real. Still, the phone’s display could not be denied.

I’m not hungry. Let’s have dinner – IA

The last time he saw Irene Adler… But that was ages ago. She owed him her life. Quite literally. But she wasn’t to return to England. Was she back? What did this mean?

Sherlock was tempted to call Mycroft, but thought better of it. Instead he sent The Woman a response:  
Gave up food. Found it unnecessary. – SH

A few seconds later, she responded:  
You just need a new place to dine – IA

Sherlock thought for a moment.  
Any suggestions? – SH

Sherlock’s phone display showed him an address across town. If he left now he could be there in about an hour. He had to see who was on the other end of these texts. It could only be Irene Adler, but how?

 

~080~

 

The door was ajar when he arrived. He gingerly pushed it open.

When Sherlock saw her for the first time since that night… (When I say run… run!)… He was expecting her to be in some sort of distress. She was not.

The Woman looked surprisingly well, considering all the globetrotting she had been doing. She was a ginger now and the deep red color suited her. She was living in a very airy and light-filled loft in Twickenham. It was almost insulting how close she was to London’s heart. Sherlock supposed that the best place for a criminal fugitive to hide would be right at the government’s back door. Entirely clever or completely mental, either would describe Irene Adler.

“Well, well,” she said smugly, sauntering over to him in a t-shirt and torn jeans. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“You’re looking well, Ms. Adler,” said Sherlock dryly.

“Can’t complain,” said she, gesturing toward a low Scandinavian style sofa in the corner. “Won’t you have a seat? Get comfortable.”

“I’m not here on a social call, Woman,” said Sherlock. He stood resolutely in the middle of her sitting room, his coat still on, hands in his pockets.

“I would never accuse you of such a thing, Mr. Holmes,” said Irene, shutting the door behind him and moving toward the sitting area. “You’re here to deduce me. Well. Go on then. Have at it.” And with that smug smile never leaving her face, she plopped herself down on the sofa, crossing her legs casually and propping up her head with her hand.

“An ‘art student’, is it?” Sherlock began. “Awfully pedestrian of you, Ms. Adler. Surely you could have done better. Although, work visas are tougher to come by than student ones. I expect that you came through with letters of recommendation and all. My only question is: now that you’re here, what do you want?”

“Why I’m here is a complicated matter, Mr. Holmes,” she said, her eyes never leaving his. “You’ll figure it all out in time, but what you should be asking yourself is why I contacted you.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “That is an excellent question. Why did you call?”

“I wanted to see you again,” she said.

Sherlock huffed his annoyance at such a miserable attempt at deception but he looked at her closely and to his great surprise found it to almost be the truth. Almost.

“What do you want with me?” he asked her.

“Well,” she said. “I did tell you before that brainy is the new sexy.”

“And you told John that you were gay,” Sherlock parried.

“Woman’s prerogative, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

“Gay people just don’t suddenly become straight,” said Sherlock. “Similarly, they don’t choose to be gay either. Or haven’t you been keeping up with the times?”

She clucked her tongue at him, walked to him, placing her face very close to his. “You’d be surprised to know what I keep up with, Mr. Holmes.” Her eyes roved over his face like a searchlight.

“I’d almost forgotten how handsome you are, Sherlock,” she said.

“Have you forgotten that you owe me your life, Ms. Adler?” he said.

She had the good grace to allow her face to lose a little color at this. She recovered and cocked a smile at him. “No, Sherlock. How could I? You came to my rescue. You were my knight in shining armor. I do owe you a debt.”

“I’m glad you realize that,” he said. “Now tell me what you’re doing here.”

“I was asked to be here,” she said.

“What? By whom?” he said.

“I can’t say by whom, but know this: Whoever asked me back has your best interest in mind. This person thought you might need to unburden yourself. They also thought that my particular expertise might come in handy. Seeing as how you’ve turned quite masochistic as of late, they thought, if you were going down that road, you may as well travel with someone who knows… the ropes.” She smiled at her own joke.

“Mycroft,” said Sherlock. His lips formed a firm line and his hands tightened into fists.

“Just so,” she said. “I knew you’d figure it out.”

Sherlock looked at a point above her head and across the room. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Adler, but I can assure you that I do not require your services,” he said. He turned from her and headed for the door.

“Of course you don’t. You’ll always be able to be assaulted by the next person on the tube that you manage to insult,” she said. “And when that pain fades, you’ll seek out another and then another, until one day someone will just throw you under a train and have done with you. But then… that may be what you want.”

Sherlock stopped in the doorway.

She continued: “Normally the whole BDSM thing works pretty well with someone who is looking for legitimate punishment. However with you, I think I’ll be less a dominatrix and more of a sadist. You’d make a terrible submissive, but a marvelous masochist. Hell, you’re already on your way.”

Sherlock turned to her and stared.

“Ah,” she said, her smug smile once again gracing her features. “I see I’ve gotten your attention. Yes, Sherlock, I’ll give you a safe way to punish yourself for all your ugly little misdeeds to poor sweet John.” At this, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Your brother’s been most informative,” she said.

“My brother should learn to mind his own affairs,” he said through clenched teeth. Mycroft would pay for this. A membership in the cake of the month club would be just a start.

“Oh now, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Your brother actually cares about you. I should think that you’d take that as a compliment as he usually doesn’t waste emotions on many people.”

She looked at him for a moment and asked: “So tell me: What do you think? Shall I punish you?”

For a long moment Sherlock just stared at her. Angular and long, she was deceptively strong. He recalled her last abusive ministrations on him when she had drugged him and beat the hell out of him with her riding crop. He had welts for a week.

If he was honest, a revisit to that moment would be what he deserved for his neglect of John. Debasing himself, the humiliation he would feel to be naked and at this woman’s mercy… But no, she said sadist/ masochist, not dom/sub. As a masochist, he would be allowing her to torture him physically. Sexual stimulation would not be the goal for either of them.

Could this be what he needed to ease the emotional hurt he was living with: to replace emotional pain with physical pain? After all, physical wounds heal; emotional wounds last a lifetime. It might work. At least, it might in theory. And the only way to test a theory was…

“Name a time and a place, Woman,” said Sherlock.

 

~080~

 

The taste of blood. His lip was split. It would heal.

He recalled John’s face the last time he administered first aid to a cut on his head. That sweet mouth just inches from his, but set in a firm line… “This changes nothing, Sherlock,” John had said. “I’m still leaving in the morning.”

Pain shot through the back of his thighs, grounding his wandering mind.

I deserve this.

John’s sweet smile came back to him again. This time they were fresh off a case… which one? It didn’t matter. They looked at each other from across the sitting room and they both knew.

Another sting of pain across his backside.

Time flashed forward a bit and they were both naked in Sherlock’s room just standing there staring at one another. Sherlock’s sharp eyes took in all that skin, his cock dripping with precum in anticipation of the touching to come. He looked into John’s eyes.

John had the most beautiful deep blue eyes. The eyes were the windows to the soul. Sherlock read that somewhere. If it was true, then John’s soul was gorgeous. His soul was true and loyal, sexy and mesmerizing, everything Sherlock wanted in the world. The only thing he wanted.

His thighs screamed in agony again as the whip fell. He barely heard the crack of it.

I don’t deserve you, John.

That night they made love slowly. John used to say that it was about connection. Sherlock had to agree that he felt strongly connected to John on the nights when they took their time. He also felt afraid. These were the nights where John would touch him so softly as though he were made of something so incredibly breakable. It was a reverent touch; it was the touch of a worshiper, a pilgrim, a believer.

John Watson believed in Sherlock Holmes.

And Sherlock Holmes was afraid to be loved that deeply, that completely. No one had ever bothered to--

Another sharp sting. His legs trembled, but he had to hold himself up. He wanted the pain. He needed to drown out the memory of that dazzling soul. He needed to forget those nights that John worshipped him as his lover, his friend.

Those nights of slow lovemaking after John had fallen asleep, Sherlock would watch his face, his fingers hovering over John’s features, not wanting to wake his beautiful doctor, his John. This was Sherlock’s time to worship, to stand at John’s altar and fall hopelessly entranced with this amazing person who dared to love him so very much.

John openly worshipped Sherlock. Sherlock worshipped John in secret. He wasn’t brave like John. He wished he were.

I do not deserve John. He’s too good for me.

Sherlock was vaguely aware that he was crying.

A final strike from the whip was like a door closing on his heart. His mind went blank.

The smell of alcohol. A rough sponge moved across his aching skin. Did I scream? Was that me? Pain. Sherlock’s skin was on fire, stinging in places where the whip had landed.

“We’re done for today, Mr. Holmes,” said a voice. Her voice. Sherlock tried to remember her name. He couldn’t. His brain had switched off. That hadn’t happened since…

No. Stop.

Irene. That’s her name. Irene Adler. The Woman.

His bonds were loosened and Sherlock collapsed onto the mattress, resting on his stomach. The pain emanating from the tortured skin on his back half was unbearable. His muscles quivered involuntarily.

I deserve this. I deserve this. I deserve this…

John, please… I’m so so sorry.

I love you, John.

 

~080~

 

It was a week after the third visit with Irene that Sherlock found himself humming Shubert to himself while looking through his microscope. He hadn’t ever hummed as he worked unless he was particularly contented with himself. He hadn’t been contented like that since before the break up with John.

Sherlock looked up from his work. Irene’s ministrations were helping him. Theory proven, then. That’s good.

He got up gingerly from his stool and got a saline solution from the refrigerator door. Every muscle in his body seemed to scream in protest. The residual pain was a reminder of his failings as an emotional human being. They felt good. Necessary. Reminders that he should keep away from sentiment and emotion.

Alone keeps me safe.

 

~080~

 

The nightmares began after his first “appointment” with Irene.

Sherlock stood atop a roof overlooking London. It was nighttime and the streets were quiet. Down below he could see two figures in the streetlamp light. One was himself, the other, John.

Suddenly, his viewpoint shifted and he was standing beside them as they spoke in hushed tones. He approached, hoping to hear what they spoke about. John was anxious, looking nervously about. Sherlock’s other self had John by the arm, his coat collar turned up hiding half his face. Something was wrong.

John caught his eye and Sherlock’s other self looked over. It wasn’t Sherlock.

It wasn’t actually any person. It wasn’t even human. It was the face of a monster. Eyes blood red, the mouth twisted into a gaping maw with endless rows of needle-sharp teeth, its veins clearly showing through translucent skin. John looked at Sherlock horrified. He looked at Monster Sherlock and was telling him something else and pointing at Sherlock.

Why was John pointing at him and looking fearful? Shouldn’t he be running away from the Monster?

Sherlock tried to close the distance between them and explain to John. He wanted John to see that he wasn’t the bad one here. He wanted John to get away from the Monster.

John and the Monster turned and ran down an alley. Sherlock followed blindly.

Sherlock could hear their footsteps and breathing. He was close on their heels, but couldn’t see them in the dark alley. He turned a corner, then turned another corner. All he saw about him was brick wall after brick wall. He was trapped in a maze, but he had to keep running for John. He ran faster and faster. That Monster was going to suck John’s soul, take his life, steal him away from Sherlock. He had to get to John before the Monster killed him.

Corner after corner, Sherlock raced unceasingly calling out John’s name. John never answered him.

There. A door. Sherlock crashed into it with all his might and it splintered into dust. He landed on the floor. He stood up quickly. There stood John and the Monster. John had his Browning out and was pointing it at Sherlock. The Monster stood behind John with a look of triumph on his… face. Sherlock despaired. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw another figure. He risked a glance and saw that it was a mirror. It was his reflection. He was the monster. His eyes were red, his mouth a misshapen thing. Sherlock fell to his knees with the shock. His hands were covered in blood.

He looked back at the Monster behind John and saw Sherlock’s face instead. There was a flicker of red in the eyes before they went back to crystal blue. A smug smile spread across Monster Sherlock’s now perfect mouth. “Have you had enough yet, Mr. Holmes?” Irene’s voice.

John cocked his pistol. His eyes were cold and hard. Sherlock wanted to beg for mercy, but his monster’s mouth wouldn’t let him speak. He merely moaned and pleaded with his blood-red eyes.

“You deserve this,” said John and fired the gun.

 

~080~

 

“Have you had enough yet, Mr. Holmes?” said Irene.

Sherlock’s back was covered in welts and sweat. Today it was the riding crop. Sherlock preferred the cat o’nine tails and the safety pins, but Irene said they could only use those every so often, once his back had a chance to heal. Until then, he would have to put up with the paddle and the crop.

“Speak, Mr. Holmes,” said Irene. “Have you had enough?”

“No, Woman,” he said.

“Good,” she replied. “Then we stop here for today.”

He turned his head to look at her. “What?” he said. He was angry. His brain hadn’t shut off yet. He needed more. His brain always shut off with John, sometimes several times in a row. But that was John: kind, sweet, fuckable, adorable, amenable, stubborn, beautiful, John. His John. 

But he wasn’t his John any longer. Mary had him now. And Mary takes better care of her John than Sherlock ever did. After this last visit from him that much was obvious. He had to have put on at least six pounds.

Irene’s voice snapped Sherlock out of his reverie. “We stop here because not giving you what you want is part of the torture of it all,” she said simply. “Old saying: Always keep ‘em wanting more.” She released his bonds and left the room to get showered and dressed. It was her custom. Sherlock lay there in a pain haze, but still not quite enough pain for his liking. He was too… conscious; too aware of his surroundings.

He supposed he should be grateful that he didn’t get up and move about when John came to visit. As unobservant as John had a tendency to be, the good doctor would spot a man in his kind of discomfort in a heartbeat. John would then be immediately concerned and probably have him institutionalized. Mycroft would have him out inside of an hour, but John would have still been made aware of Sherlock’s physical condition and that would not do. John should not have to worry about him. John was too good a man to be wasting his attentions on Sherlock.

I don’t deserve him.

Irene was a poor substitute for John. It was as if she were his smoking patch while John was a freshly-lit cigarette. She wasn’t enough. But she would have to do.

I don’t deserve him.

John, I’m so so sorry. Please. So sorry.

Help me, John.

 

~080~

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about him? He is still very important to you. I can tell.” Irene watched him dress. She always enjoyed this part. Because of the pain, his limbs moved stiffly and awkwardly as if they really didn’t belong to him, as if they were attached in the wrong places. She was fascinated by his physicality.

“You are not a trained psychologist and even if you were, I still wouldn’t want to… talk,” he replied with mild disgust.

“Ah, but there you’re wrong,” she said. “I was taught by some of the best minds in Britain, Mr. Homes. They gave me an education… and I taught them a lesson. Tit for tat.”

Sherlock gave her an evaluating look. He sighed, looked down and finished buttoning his shirt. His hands were a bit swollen from being restricted by the ropes, but they’d recover inside of an hour. They always had before.

“You do want to talk about him,” she said. “It shows in everything you do.” She paused and then added: “And in everything you say.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up at her.

“You cry out when you’re close to unconsciousness, Sherlock,” she said and in an almost reverent voice she added: “You always call out his name… and beg for his forgiveness.”

Sherlock blinked. “That will be all, Woman,” said Sherlock. He grabbed his coat and closed the door firmly behind him.


End file.
